


Honey, don't feed it, it will come back

by Gorgeousgreymatter



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Biting, Established Relationship, F/M, Hair-pulling, Light Bondage, Marking, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, POV Alternating, Pet Names, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Beth, Possessive Daryl, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Submissive Beth, Vaginal Fingering, dominant daryl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 06:59:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15658122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorgeousgreymatter/pseuds/Gorgeousgreymatter
Summary: This is all he needs to feel grounded? Put his hands on her? It's such a small price to pay, and it's one she'd pay willingly, and gladly, again and again should the need arise.Because it's what they both want basically all the time anyway.“I want you to – I want you to touch me.”





	Honey, don't feed it, it will come back

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LeathernLaces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeathernLaces/gifts).



> This is an extremely extended scene inspired by one in an RP I'm currently doing. I'm super into Bethyl atm, and am always looking for a good RP partner. Shoot me an email at truexfallacy@yahoo.com if you're interested. I prefer writing as Daryl, but I'd be willing to give Beth a shot with the right plot. Non-ZA AUs are my preferred jam.

Honey, don't feed it, it will come back

_He hates prison_. There's a reason Daryl's never been on the inside, and it really don't have anything to do with trying to be an upstanding citizen. As he's led down the drab hallways to the visiting room, he thinks how everything about this place makes his skin crawl. Everything from the fluorescent lights that pop and flicker over his head (and never fail to give him a headache), all the way to the concrete walls that feel like they're literally closing in on him, like they'll crush him into dust.

All he feels like here is a damn rat trapped in a maze. The guards lock the door once the group he's with is led inside, and he flinches noticeably when he hears the buzz of the door alarming itself. There's always that thought, that prickle of fear that for whatever reason, they'll make him stay here, like they'll lock that door behind him and never let him out. Because he knows how people look at him, probably figuring he'll end up here eventually.

It's only a matter of time.

 

“ _You look like shit_ ,” Daryl says dryly, scowling at Merle's busted up face as he's led into the room with all the other inmates with visitors. The man's got what looks to be a broken nose and a black eye, and it ain't like he looked that great to begin with.

“Still prettier than you, Darylina,” Merle drawls, and Daryl just grunts and shakes his head because even beaten all to hell, his brother still wears that same shit-eating grin. Like the whole world could be going up in flames around him, and he'd just sit there and watch it burn like he ain't got nothing better to do.

“Don't fucking call me that, asshole.” Daryl rummages in his coat for his cigarettes, and Merle holds out his hand expectantly. Daryl rolls his eyes but gives him one anyway, and for a second they're both just quiet, nothing but the rhythm of their inhaling and exhaling, listening to the other inmates and their visitors talking animatedly around them.

“I thought the brotherhood watched your back in here,” Daryl says, and he's not bothering to hide the very clear mark of disdain in his voice when he asks the question.

“Don't need nobody watchin' my back, boy,” Merle growls, his yellowing teeth clenched around his cigarette. “Thought you stopped bitin' your nails. That's a disgusting-ass habit, you know. You're a grown man.”

It goes on like that for awhile. Merle ragging on him like usual. It's strange, not because that's unusual – that shit's pretty par for the fucking course – it's just, all they're talking about is Daryl. Merle doesn't ask him for anything, no favors – he just...talks. About Daryl's trailer, his job, how daddy Dixon'd be rolling in his grave if he knew Daryl was tryin' to be all respectable. How he's gone soft and the only cure for that would be to get the hell out of there (“ _Boy, this town'll suck you dry like whiskey from a bottle”)._

Daryl can't help it, how he flinches, and he knows Merle sees it too (like Daryl could hide anything from him, anyway). “I ain't going with you. When you get out...I can't – I'm not leaving.” His brother's gaze sharpens, and his eyes turn that icy shade of blue that's so cold it's like Daryl can actually feel the chill on his skin.

“Whatever. I'll be out soon enough,” Merle says finally, leaning back in his creaky metal chair. “We gotta get you the fuck out of this place. It's fuckin' with your head, little brother.”

“I told you I can't, Merle – I got a job, and a place, I have someone...”

At that, Merle goes still, gets that same look in his eyes Daryl's seen on hunting dogs that scent a rabbit, ripe for the kill, gone wild from the call of blood. And the grin he's giving Daryl, it looks downright sinister. “I'm really glad you're finally getting your dick wet and all, cuz I been tellin' you for years it'll fall off if you don't use it. But don't fucking kid yourself. ”

Daryl can't help the snarl that builds in his throat, the way he's digging into the flesh of his palm like he'll fly apart if he doesn't. Feels like he might.

“Why the fuck would you want to stay here when you know exactly what these people think when they look at you? You think they're gonna let you have it – your white picket fence and your nine-to-five an your little girlfriend? Get real, little brother. You're playing pretend, and one day the games gonna be over and you're gonna be the only one who doesn't realize it. Not till they string you up and leave you hanging from the rafters.”

“Fuck you, Merle,” Daryl growls, but he's got his head hung and he's hiding behind his hair because it feels a little bit like he's suddenly sixteen again and terrified.

“I'm just lookin' out for you, boy. Ain't I always looked out for you?” Daryl says nothing. He's pretty sure they both know that's not true, but Merle likes saying it anyway.

“Just don't knock that bitch of yours up, and we won't have no problems when I get out.”

“Beth,” Daryl says sharply. “Her name is Beth.”

And then he just gets up, so fast his chair clatters to the floor, and he can't bring himself to look back as he buzzes frantically for the guards to let him out

 

 _Fuck Merle, fuck prison, fuck all of it_. That's the loop that's playing in Daryl's head over and over, like some worn out, dusty record turning, turning, turning. His brother could fucking rot in there for all he cares, because seeing him had only confirmed everything that Daryl had been afraid he'd say.

Should've known better. Because he's tired. Tired of being a piece of shit all the time, tired of being exactly what people expect him to be. What his fucking brother expects him to be.

His hands are still shaking, and he's not sure how many smokes he goes through in the parking lot before it feels like he might be able to stay upright on his bike, but it's a lot. Enough for his throat to feel as dry as desert sand.

The ride home helps a little so that by the time he ends back up at his trailer, he's not wound up quite as tight as he was when he'd stormed out of that prison. But he still feels untethered, like he might just float away right here from the ground, lost forever if he's not careful. If he doesn't find some way to chain himself back to the earth.

The sun's nearly gone down by the time he makes it back to the trailer park. Going for a ride, the bike, it normally helps settle him , but when he kills the engine in the driveway, every muscle in his body is stiff and taut, so tense his fingers ache from how he's been clenching them in against his palm. Christ, he wants to do s _omething_ , because that anger is still there, bubbling like hot lead in his belly. He wants to fight, wants to drink, wants to peel the flesh off his own damn body if only to quiet the cacophony of voices that all sound exactly like fucking Merle in his head.

The motion-sensored porch light Carol's got flickers on and everything in Daryl that's clenched tight suddenly loosens, because _she's here_. That old pick-up of hers he's slowly nursed back to health over the three or so months since they'd started this whole thing is parked in the gravel driveway.

He'd given her a key a couple of days ago. It had been the longest moment of his life, that excruciating silence after he'd offered it to her. It had only lasted a second or two, but he swears it could've been hours. Not that he'd had anything to worry about because when he opened his mouth to speak, say something along the lines of,“ _It's yours_ , _unless you don't want it. Then never mind, I guess –,”_ she'd grabbed his face and kissed him so thoroughly that he still swears he saw actual stars.

The door creaks open and Daryl steps inside. It's quiet, no lights on save for the muted glow of the lamp on the little table next to the couch. His breath hitches in his throat when his eyes scan the room until they find their target – _her_. He always finds her.

It takes another second for his eyes to notice her legs, bare and white and gleaming in the moonlight, and he drags his gaze upward, sees she's got nothing on but one of his shirts, a black button-down with sleeves so long on her they hang all the way down to her fingertips. She’s so beautiful that it almost hurts to look at her

She's the prettiest fucking thing he's ever seen. She has been since the moment he'd opened his eyes that day three months ago, when she'd found him flat on his back on one of the service roads behind her daddy's farm. Beat all to hell with his bike practically in pieces around him because Merle'd owed some dealers still after he went inside and for whatever reason they'd come to collect. From Daryl – who'd hardly had two pennies to rub together at the time, and hadn't done drugs for years, and never crank.

 

Beth can already tell how tightly he's wound when he walks in the door. Now that he's in front of her and she can feel the weight of his eyes on her, fingernails digging into his denim-covered legs, anyone could see it. But it's like she can _feel_ it too, her own teeth clenched just as tightly as the ones in Daryl's jaw. And the way he looks at her.

It's _something_.

“Just wanted to be here, y'know ...” Beth mumbles shyly. “-- in case you needed me.” In case it didn't go well with his brother, and from the looks of it, how Daryl's still frozen in the doorway like an animal caught in a trap, it clearly hadn't. And he'd given her that key so he couldn't be mad at her for usin' it, could he? Daryl's eyes are at his feet now, and he's hiding behind that long,wild hair of his, and Beth hates that, when he won't meet her eyes. When they'd first started this, he'd hardly looked at her, and every time she'd caught him at it, he'd looked away like he was expecting her to hit him or something. Like he'd done something wrong and she was gonna punish him like he was some kinda bad dog who gets a rolled up newspaper to the nose when it pees somewhere it isn't supposed to.

The urge to touch him, reach for him, peel the fingernails (the ones she knows are digging into his flesh) away from his palm, it's like an itch she's dying to scratch. It takes all of her self control not to fly off the couch and into his arms. But she can do it. She can wait, because she's Beth Greene, Senoia's resident good girl. Kindness and patience are sorta her trademark.

Normally she's so good at reading him, but right now with the distance like a growing chasm between them, she can't quite figure him out. Beth bites at her lip nervously, her fingers twitching in the sleeves of her shirt. He's not saying anything, and she's not sure he's even listening. That's not so unusual. Sometimes he gets that faraway look in his eyes, like he's somewhere else entirely, somewhere she can't follow. “Or I can go. Maybe I should just – “ and she trails off here, wincing internally, because the more she talks, the heavier that sinking feeling in her stomach gets. She's not sure if she's helping at all or making things worse, being here.

With a shake of her head she's off the couch and turning away to move toward the back bedroom where she's left her things.

“ _Don't go_.”

Daryl doesn't remember actually deciding to move, but by the time he realizes it, he's got one hand reaching out to grasp her wrist, the other grabbing her roughly by the hip to pull her toward him. Beth lets out a shuddering breath but she goes willingly, melts into him the same way she always does. Her hair is damp, and she's close enough that he can smell her. This time though, along with the familiar sweet floral that follows her, is something achingly familiar.

She's used his soap he realizes dumbly, as he leans in closer, the flyaway strands of her hair just barely brushing his cheek. The pale smooth slope of her throat, the sharp curves of her collarbones are on full, blinding display. The brand’s the one he always buys because it's the cheapest, so the scent is particularly ingrained in his senses. It's disgustingly animal of him, but he likes it, likes that she smells like him.

“Are you hungry? Because I can make you somethin, or we could just –” Beth starts breathlessly, and Daryl would laugh if he didn't almost feel like crying. She's always trying to take care of him, and it's still just as shocking as the first time she'd done it. Because who had ever tried before her?

The hand he doesn't have sprawled around her hip goes to that braid hanging down her back and tugs on it just hard enough to bare that alluring strip of skin underneath her jaw that he presses his mouth to. Beth's rambling trails off into a high-pitched whine, her fingers scrabbling for purchase, the sharp little points of her nails digging into his arms. Daryl hisses against her throat, but he makes no moves to release her.

“Don't wanna talk,” he mumbles. If they do, Beth'll ask him questions and he'll answer her because he always does. Beth asks and he answers – opens himself up just a little bit more each time, tearing out pieces and giving them to her. Even when they're raw and bloody. Because those are the rules. But right now, he feels too frayed around the edges, already feels like he's been gutted like a fish, like she's got a front row seat to a show featuring the mangled wreckage of his insides.

Beth's pulse rabbits frantically in her neck, but when she speaks, her voice isn't unsteady or uncertain. Then she's releasing the death grip she's got on his shirt to thread her fingers through his hair, spread a palm against the cut line of his jaw. “We don't gotta talk. You don't have to tell me anythin',” she says, soft as those baby blues of hers that are framed by lashes delicate as moth wings.

If he could just bring himself to look at her – but he can't. Feels like his eyes might as well be anchored toward the floor. With a shaky exhale, he manages it finally, to unbolt his gaze from his knees to meet hers head-on, even if it hurts a little bit, like trying to stare at the sun.

“Daryl?” The way Beth's got her hands on him, so gently, like he's the one liable to break apart. Like he might shatter into pieces like broken glass, and maybe she's right. “What do you need _? Tell me.”_

Suddenly there's an urgency to his movements, the way he loosens the vice grip he's got on her hip to take hold of her face. It's not something he can put into words, that need. Not right now. Maybe on a good day he might attempt it, fumble through some half-brained explanation that sounds a hell of a lot better in his head than it does coming out of his mouth. But today is a day that ain't anywhere close to one of those.

Beth's eyes are wide and bright, that little questioning wrinkle forming over her brow. With a harsh intake of breath, he surges forward to claim her mouth, catching his teeth on the perfect bow of her lip. He relinquishes the hold on her chin, but his hands find a new path to follow, those long lines of her neck, her shoulders, settling at the the small, round swell of her hips.

His fingers stray again eventually, toying with those little plastic buttons of on her shirt. It's a well-established ritual, that shirt of hers (or his, if they're being specific). He'd confessed to her once that he liked it, her wearing it. Like it meant something. Made her his.

What happens next, it's not something he'd plans, but there it is: the sound of cloth tearing, Beth's gasp, then the soft plink of buttons hitting the floor as the fabric comes apart at his forceful insistence. There's a moment of hesitation, his breath coming in ragged pants while he stares at her.

It's just a shirt. He can see that now.

What she is to him, it's more than that. More than anything some silly scrap of fabric could ever begin to touch.

Daryl looks spooked, a little shell-shocked like even he hadn't expected himself to be as violent as that. So he's just watching her, immovable and unblinking, still as a damn statue. Beth can tell he's on the cusp of apologizing, and she doesn't think she can bear seeing that expression on his face. The one she knows is from growing up learning to anticipate the hits. Because why would a dog used to getting kicked expect anything else?

“Daryl, It's okay.” It is, really it is. This is all he needs to feel grounded? Put his hands on her? It's such a small price to pay, and it's one she'd pay willingly, and gladly, again and again should the need arise. Because it's what they both want basically all the time anyway. “I want you to – I want you to touch me.” _I always do_ , she thinks desperately, willfully holding his gaze as she shrugs off that tattered fabric and lets it slither to the floor between them before reaching for the hand that's dared remove itself from her hip and putting it back in its rightful place.

“ _Beth_ _.”_ Her own name passing his lips makes her shiver. It always does, but her mouth forms into a pout because she recognizes the tone. It's not often Daryl says no to her, but she can hear it in his voice that he's thinking it's not a good idea, falling past that edge they're both peering over. Which is ridiculous because she happens to think it's a great idea. She knows what he needs, even if he won't admit it. She's seen him like this only a couple of times before, angry and tense, wrestling with the edges of his control. The only thing that never fails to bring him back to her is  _this_.

Daryl's always telling her that he needs to be careful with her. Says it like he's the one that needs to be told, be reminded of what he's capable of. Well screw that, Beth thinks. She's not some china doll sitting on a shelf – only to be looked at and never touched. She's _real_ and _alive_ and so is he, and she's his and he's hers, so maybe he really is the one that needs reminding.

So this time she's the one that surges forward, throwing her arms around his shoulders and standing on her tiptoes to find his mouth, catching his bottom lip in her teeth and biting down hard. Normally she's the one who's slow and careful when she's touching him, because she'll never forget the way he'd flinched the first time she'd tried to put her hands on him that day she'd found him passed out on the road. Half-conscious and bleeding all over her truck, he'd still snapped and snarled at her like she meant to do him in right there.

 _I don't like to be touched_.

That's what he'd told her. Three months later, it's only mostly true, because from the way Daryl groans against her lips, how he lets out a sound she knows he'd fully deny for what it is – a whimper – when she digs her nails into his scalp, he doesn't mind so much when it's her. It's unclear exactly how it happens, but the next thing she knows is she's pressed up against the door with her legs around his waist. Then he's letting out that growl, the one a human man shouldn't be able to make but somehow Daryl does, because there's just something so inherently wild about him. It never fails to make her heart race.

“ _Daryl_ _.”_ Daryl's teeth scrape against her neck and she just about goes cross-eyed. “Not – not here _._ Take me to _our_ bed _._ ”'

 

Beth's mouth grazes his ear when she whispers those words, that command. If he's going to be the monster at the end of this book, then he'll play the part willingly. Whatever she wants, whatever she asks for, he'll do it. He kisses her again, stifling that groan in his throat and lifting her into his arms, muscles rippling with reserved strength as he carries her down the hall. His breath comes in uneven pants from his efforts to keep his mouth attached to every inch of her skin he can reach.

The bedroom is dark, save for the cracks of moonlight streaming in through the parted curtains and the sliver of fluorescent from the light still on in the hallway. The way he sets her down on the mattress, it's another strange shift to the gentler moments before she'd kissed him. Daryl might be acting wilder now, but he's still aware of it. It's still there. That ever-present fear he has of going too far. Of hurting her. Always afraid of hurting her.

With a thud, he's falling to his knees at the edge of the bed, kneeling in front of Beth like he's a sinner in church. Her hair has come loose from all that attention from his hands, a halo of gold silk hanging around her face. He's never believed in angels, but if he did, he's pretty sure they'd look just like her.

For a moment, all he does is simply touch her, soft strokes, his eyes following his hands as they drag up her legs, starting at her ankles, worrying his way up all that slick, smooth skin until he ends at the elastic of her panties. He could rip those off too, but he doesn't. With another insistent noise, he noses at her knees, pressing his mouth, the sharp points of his teeth, into the backs of them, the soft flesh of her inner thighs. Daryl doesn't even have to ask, doesn't even have to move her himself– Beth spreads her legs for him, and he lets out an approving hum while dragging a knuckle over her slit. Fuck, she's already wet, he can feel it, the damp fabric underneath his fingers.

 _Sweet girl,_ he thinks. _Perfect girl_. He thinks it, yes, but he's far enough gone already that he doesn't realize that he's murmuring those very words against her thighs until they may as well be etched there against all that creamy white like a goddamn brand.

“M'gonna make you sing, girl,” Daryl whispers, a promise traced into that dewy flesh with the hot muscle of his tongue. He slides his hands up her thighs and hips, flattening his palms over her stomach, feeling it rise and fall as she draws short, unsteady breaths. He could tease her now – he's done it before. It's not the time for that though. Not for games, not for pretense. He just wants her. Needs her. The taste of her on his tongue is impossibly sweet as he yanks the elastic down her thighs over her feet and throws it to the side.

Like this, the world seems smaller somehow. Just him and her.

It's simpler here.

 

Beth knows she's not ugly, but compared to girls that looked like Maggie, she's never looked at herself and seen more than a flat-chested farm girl. Because what guy wanted to date a girl that would forever look like somebody's kid sister?

God, the way he looks at her, like she's the only thing in the room, every room, like she's his whole world. The most beautiful woman he's ever seen. When he looks at her like that, it's hard not to feel like she might be. Not that it matters to her one little bit. As long she gets to keep him. As long as he stays right here with her.

His voice is always so low, a little hoarse from lack of use and so many years of chain-smoking. That accent. Daryl could read her the damn phone book, and she'd sit there all day just to get the chance to listen to him. To feel the words that scrape just as roughly over her skin as his hands do.

She's still a virgin (not that haven't done their fair share of exploring) . Not because of her semi-strict religious upbringing, or lack of opportunity. She'd just never wanted to. It had never felt right. Certainly not with Jimmy, though he'd hardly pushed the subject since he was terrified of her daddy as it was. It seemed to be all Zach had wanted to begin with, so that hadn't been all too appealing an option either.

It's been different with Daryl practically since the first day she'd seen him. In fact, she'd taken one look at him and she was pretty sure she'd never wanted anything or anyone so badly in her life. Like she'd had to have him, or she'd die or something.

“Whatever you want, Daryl,” she says softly, cupping his cheek, shivering when the prickly hairs of his beard scratch against her palm. “Anything.” And she really means it. Anything. She can't think of a single thing he'd want that she wouldn't willingly give him.

 

She says he can have whatever he wants. Daryl knows what she really means because it's written all over her face. _You can do whatever you want_. To her, for her. Anything.

Jesus fucking christ. Daryl's the luckiest bastard in the whole world. He's reminded again and again – there's no way in hell a man like him could deserve this on a good day. But hearing that, seeing the look in Beth's eyes, it's with the bewildering knowledge that whatever he could think to ask right now, she'd do it. How can she have so much trust in him when he hardly has any in himself? It rattles him to the core when he stares at her, as he takes in her blown-out pupils, hardly any blue left. That's it, the way she's watching at him. That's what shakes him.

He doesn't answer her, just surges forward and kisses her again, huffing another ragged breath against her lips. It's like she's gone and cracked open something inside him he never even knew was there. If he wasn't already feeling high off her, the taste of her on his tongue, the sweet salt of her skin, how she feels under the touch of his rough and undeserving hands, this is another level entirely. There's that noise, that punching whimper and the sound is enough to practically unhinge him. His hand finds her chin and he grips her there again. Not tightly, not hard, but it's still a grip just the same.

Daryl lets go of her, regretfully, pressing one last wayward kiss on her jaw. Then there's the sound of metal, the clink of his buckle as he undoes his belt. He's still fully clothed, and he's gonna stay that way, at least for now. That's not his endgame at the moment.

He's gentle, almost maddeningly slow as he takes her hands in his, guides them to the small of her back, looping that faded leather around her wrists to keep them there.

“Daryl?” She gazes down at him, that little wrinkle in her brow reappearing again like she's not sure if he's being serious. Like she's not sure if he's playing with her or if it's for real.

Daryl doesn't make any other movements or offer her any answer, any explanation. Just stays perfectly still, practically boring holes into her with his eyes. He just watches her carefully, cataloging every little shift in her expression. There's confusion, that wide-eyed uncertainty as she wiggles a bit, testing the restraints,her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

He keeps his hands at his sides, and though he probably seems calm, all she'd have to do is look down and see he's clenching his fists almost as tightly as he's clenching his jaw. Daryl wants to touch her. How could he not when she's in front of him like this? But he won't let himself yet, not until he gets his permission. So he waits.

She doesn't say anything else, but he can tell the moment she gives in. The way she breathes out, long and deep, and he sees some of the tension ease out of her shoulders and feels some of that drain out of his own body too. She's probably all too aware now that he could break her, snap her like a twig if he really wanted to. They both are. And yet, she trusts him. There might be a touch of fear in it, that unwavering fealty, but it's not enough to stop her. Whatever he wants, she'll do it, or she'll at least try, despite it, that fear.

It's with a heartbreaking certainty that he looks at her and knows she loves him. Entirely, bad parts and all. Perhaps at times even in spite of them.

It's dizzying amount of power she's offering him.

There's a shaky exhale of air as he relaxes his body and finally reaches for her, a slow glide of his hand against her cheek, threading his fingers through that blonde mane with a surprising amount of tenderness. He knows her body now. As much or better than he does is own. She's not as breakable as she looks. She's strong.

And she's his.

 

When he takes off his belt, Beth can't help it, the staring. It's not often she gets the chance to see him. Normally when they're intimate, she's the one that ends up with hardly a stitch of clothing on. Not that she blames him for that. He'd been terrified showing her his scars the first time, worried that he'd somehow push her away. That she'd be disgusted by him.

It was almost impossible to put into words just how true the opposite was. If there was a textbook example of a man, Daryl'd be it. Big and broad-shouldered, strong enough to hold her in his arms with ease. Those biceps, the tattoos, how his skin is such a contrast to hers, sun bronzed versus moon pale. And those eyes of his, the ones he tries to hide behind that messy curtain of hair, dark as a storm and just as intense.

Daryl's one of the most gorgeous men she's ever seen, and for some inexplicable reason she can't even begin to imagine, he picked her.

So she's not that surprised when his clothes stay on, but when that strip of leather finds its way around her wrists, she's more than a little thrown. The way he does it, it's so slow and careful and she knows it's because he's giving her an out, giving her a chance to say no the way that he always does when they get like this. People around here probably look at him and think he's taking advantage. Beth Greene, naive and innocent and in way over her head, letting a big, bad biker have his wicked way with her. The thought makes her smile because if they only knew.

The thing is, Beth could command him with a word. If she said no, if she wanted him to stop, he'd be off of her so fast it'd probably make both their heads spin.

Most of the time he's the one putting a stop to things before they go too far. He's always calling her a horny teenager, and he's not far off. She never felt it with anyone else before him. Sex wasn't a thing she thought much about outside of the more clinical aspects. Now she thinks about it all the time, about his hands on her, his mouth, all the things he could do to her, that they could do to each other. God, she even dreams about him, wakes up wet and aching, squeezing her thighs together just to get some kind of relief.

Even now, even though the restraints are a little scary, the need still pulses through her, nerves firing like gunshots under her skin. When he finally gets his hands back on her, she actually lets out a sigh of relief, leaning into his palms, her hips arching up from the bed, searching for that similar contact.

 

That same hunger in Daryl sparks to life. All he's gotta do is look at her as it is, but like this, it strikes him like a blow to the head just how goddamn beautiful she really is, all that milky white skin, easily the softest thing he's ever felt in his life . He runs his fingers up and down her neck, her shoulder, over the dip of her waist, and the slight swell of her hip, her breasts, mirrors the touches with his lips that dutifully follow that same trail.

It's been awhile since they've had the privacy to do anything close to this, so the marks he'd left on her the last time are long faded. A fact he eagerly remedies, sucking a fresh line of bruises down her throat, worrying his teeth at the curve of her shoulder, the slotted points of her hipbones. He slides his huge palms up and down her legs, hooks them under her knees to spread her wide open for him and keep her there.

Then he busies himself for a few minutes with the insides of her thighs, nipping at that delicate, sensitive flesh. He doesn't put his mouth on her just yet, staring shamelessly. He is well aware what a strange contradiction it is that he can look at those splotches of purple beginning to form and think simultaneously about how _fucked up_ he is while also thinking he's never seen something so perfect. It should sicken him, because isn't it just as fucked up as what his daddy'd done to him? To his momma?

Beth had balked when he'd finally admitted it, that fear. That he'd end up hurting her just like his old man'd hurt him all those years ago. _It's different,_ Beth had told him, blushing at her own admission. _I like it._ He might be a little fucked up, but maybe she is too. Maybe that's why they're perfect for each other.

“You tell me when you're close, girl,” Daryl commands, voice sharp and course as gravel. The time for gentle is over now as he yanks her forward without any more pretense, licking into her like he's a starving man before a feast.

“Jesus, _Daryl_.”

Beth keens and Daryl presses a wicked smile against her when he feels her body jerking, her hips bucking wildly under his hands. He remembers the first time he'd done this, how shocked she'd been that he enjoyed it. How much he'd wanted to taste her, get her off.

When she gets to saying his name that way, all desperate like that, it sends that ripple right through him, like getting electrocuted. “You taste so fuckin' sweet, baby,” Daryl purrs, dragging the flat of his tongue across her clit to punctuate the words. He's had the immense pleasure of doing this to her a couple of times now, so he knows how to work her to wring those noises out of her that he loves so damn much.

His nails dig into her thighs to hold her steady when he uses the blunt edges of his teeth on the tight little knot of her clit, already swollen and pulsing under his attentions. With an approving hum, he fucks into her with his tongue, setting a pace that's frantic, almost punishing. She's so slick she's practically dripping. The fact that all this is because of _him_ , it's the best high he's ever felt. Better than drugs or smokes or booze.

He doesn't use his fingers yet. The way she's already shuddering, shaking, he doesn't want her tumbling over too fast. He wants to take his time. Wants her to beg for it.

 

The first time Daryl'd done this to her, her eyes had just about rolled back into her head. It was the hardest she'd ever come in her life. Made her realize she really hadn't had a clue what a real orgasm felt like until he'd eaten her out like this. God, and the way he talks. He's not much of a conversationalist normally, but when he's on her it's like he can't help it. That wall just falls away.

And when he calls her that, _baby_ , it just about turns her brain to straight mush. All her life she was always just Beth, or Bethy, or Maggie's kid sister, Hershel's little girl. Not to Daryl. To him she was _his girl, his sweetheart, honey, darlin', baby doll._ Daryl could forget her name tomorrow and only call her by those sweet little pet names and she'd be just fine and dandy with it. Might be hard to get anything done what with her being brain dead and all, but it'd be well worth it.

“I wanna touch you.” Beth whines, her hands wringing uselessly against the belt, squirming under his relentless assault. God, he's gonna kill her like this. It would be the best way to go, but she wants _more_. If her hands were free, she knows exactly what she'd do. Bury her hands in his hair, yank on it until he's growling in that way that always makes her go weak in the knees.

Because the restraints, not being able to touch him, somehow it's made everything a thousand times more intense. Her body's already on fire whenever he touches her normally. Right now her skin feels so tight, so sensitive, so hot, and she's gonna explode but it's too soon.

His tongue is magic, that's what she's decided, but she wants his hands too.

“Why can't I?” Yeah, she's pouting, that little frown on her face like Daryl's denying her something sweet, and in her opinion, he is.

 

Daryl's the opposite of musically inclined, but he knows exactly which strings of hers to pluck to get what he wants. Those breathy whimpers, keening little sighs that are like gasoline to the fire in his chest. The room is so quiet except for her, except for those sounds he coaxes out of her that echo off the walls. There's something so strangely soothing about it, the fact that she drowns out everything else, all the noise in his head.

He's not expecting that, the question. With a disapproving growl, he pulls back from between her thighs and drags his heavy gaze to meet her eyes.

He should be impressed that she manages it at all, as shaky as her voice sounds, but the mere fact that she's able to form words means he's not doing his job. It only spurs him to hold her tighter, work her harder. It's a complicated answer as it is, one he's not sure he can explain entirely. There's the one she won't want to hear – that he doesn't deserve it, to feel as good as he does when she touches him, especially not right now, not today. But that's not the only reason.

It's too much for him sometimes. Putting his hands on her is heady enough as it is – right now he feels practically drunk off her.

"Can't think straight when you touch me,” he grunts, ducking his head back down to nuzzle her, to scrape his beard against her thighs. It's too easy to lose control when she puts her hands on him. Daryl needs to prove it to her, prove it to himself that he can do this – push them both right up to that edge but not go over it.

“Want your hands too. _Please, Daryl?”_

What he _is_ expecting is her to ask him more questions, so it truly surprising that she lets it go. Beth _begs i_ nstead. Daryl's tempted to deny her what she wants, if only because it always gets him going, hearing her like this. When she's all needy for him. Cuz she's stubborn enough on a good day; the fact that she's giving in is something to be savored and appreciated.

Still, she gets a chiding bite from him, feeling her thigh quiver under his teeth. Y _ou'll get what I give you and like it._ He gives her what she asks for anyway, nosing his way back down to her slit, hot breath ghosting over all that pretty pink. With an approving hum, he seals his mouth over her again, lapping at her greedily. This, just this, is already enough to drive him fucking crazy – the way his dick is throbbing in his jeans, how his heart feels like it's thundering in his chest are all evidence of that. If he freed her now, let her get her hands on him, he's pretty sure he'd fucking lose it.

He can actually feel it under his palms, the goosebumps erupting across her skin. Fuck, he's pretty sure he can feel all that hot blood flooding through her veins too. With a soft rumble, he licks the sweet taste of her off his lips and draws his head back, gazing up at her again through his fringe, damp with sweat.

Daryl is gentle when he reaches up, cradles her chin and rubs his thumb under her jaw, skirting over the pulse fluttering wildly in her neck. He makes a slow journey down the ladder of her ribs, searching fingertips just barely ghosting over her slick folds, playing with them. The hand on her chin slides back into her hair. It's fast as a blink, how his soft grip tightens forcefully in her curls.

There's a good reason for it – at least another reason besides the fact that she makes such pretty sounds whenever he does it, pulls on her hair like this. He's only got two hands, and he needs some way to hold her because he doesn't give her any warning before spearing her with two fingers with the same punishing pace he'd set with his tongue.

 

Daryl'd looked so scared after their first night together like this, when he'd woken up to see the smattering of bruises he'd left on her throat and her hips, her breasts. How could she explain it, she'd thought, how incredible it had felt? Explain what it meant to her that she could look in the mirror and run a reverent finger over those smudges of yellow and purple dotting her skin and be right back to that moment when he'd put them there. Like she could feel it all over again.

And the fact that she, innocent little Beth Greene, liked it that way. Liked it _rough_. That was something of a revelation. So needless to say when she feels his teeth digging into her flesh, she nearly loses it right there, because the thought of the marks they'll leave, that white-hot flash that's more pleasure than pain. It's all so good.

She's not proud of it, the begging, but at this point when she's riding that edge, when she's so close she can actually taste it, it's worth it, losing that little bit of dignity. It's a tragedy, the loss of his mouth against her cunt, but she can handle it as long as he puts his hands on her the way she's begging him to. “ _Yes,”_ she hisses, letting out a clipped whine of surprise when she feels his fingers sheath inside of her.

She's touched herself before, tried getting herself off like any other girl her age she's sure, but she could never get there. Always so close, but not quite close enough. But now Daryl is giving her what she wants because he's being fast and rough and it's so fucking amazing in a way nothing ever has been. Nothing has ever felt as good and right as his fingers inside of her, thick and long and curled so perfectly into those places she never even imagined existed.

He's gotten her off enough times now that she can recognize it, that familiar pins and needles sensation building in the back of her spine. The way her body starts to twitch, how that spasm starts to build in her toes before making its way upward. Daryl runs hotter than anyone else she's ever met, but right now she feels like she could give him a run for his money the way her blood feels like it's boiling in her veins.

“Daryl – _fuck.”_ She's pretty far gone but she stills remembers. Remembers what he'd asked of her. “I'm s-so close.”

There's a lot of reasons they don't do anything like this unless they're sure they're alone. One of the biggest ones though, is the fact that Beth is _loud_. Daryl can always tell when she's getting there, because those moans of hers go octaves higher, drowning out the other more obscene noises they're making between them. She's so wet there's no resistance as he watches, utterly enraptured by the sight of his fingers pistoning in and out of her.

Even if she wasn't making all those pretty sounds, he'd still be able to tell. Cuz Daryl's the one with the dirty mouth. Beth rarely swears, and the only time he gets to hear those words slip out is when she's about to come.

She is, says as much, and he's surprised how deeply that choked out little sob hits him, makes the heat flare in his chest, sends that shudder up his spine. Beth's eyes are wide, pupils blown as she stares down at him hungrily,breath coming in fast, heavy pants. She's shaking in his hands, and he growls again. Despite every instinct in him telling him to continue, he pulls away before she can do it. Before she can come.

As much as he might grumble, there's only been a handful of times where he's ever denied her anything. Said no and actually meant it. There's very little he doesn't let her get away with.

She's gonna kill him for this.

“ _No_.”

The expression on her face is nothing short of blindsided. Wide-eyed and gasping, she whines in protest when he pulls away from her. God she was right there. So close. Seconds away from shattering into a thousand pieces, and he says no? He never tells her no. Beth can't help it, that sob that falls out of her mouth when Daryl's fingers slip out of her wet heat. The sudden emptiness turns her stomach, makes her want to cry. How could he do this – leave her like this?

“D-Daryl,” she whimpers. “Pl-please?”

 

She looks like he's pulled the rug out from under her, to say the least. His heart aches just a little bit when he sees her struggling with her binding. Refusing her is worth it though, he thinks, just to hear her say his name like that. An honest-to-god whine, high-pitched and agonizing in its need. That stuttering please.

“I said _no,"_ Daryl repeats huskily, dragging his gaze, hot and heavy, to look right at her. He's not trying to be heartless or cruel, even though she's still looking at him like he's committed a felony. He just wants to see how close he can get her to that ledge. Wants to know how long he can keep her dangling there. He leans up to kiss her slowly, nips at her lips and sucks on her tongue, pulling back and moving down to nose at her neck, drop a kiss on her collarbone before he takes one of her tight, stiff nipples between his teeth and sucks, flicking his tongue over the swollen nub until Beth lets out another shuddering cry. “M'not finished with you yet, girl.”

With an approving hum, he slides back down her body to hold her down by the hips and bury his tongue in her again as deep as he can, pushing into her in one agonizingly slow twist.

It's a hell of a lot easier to do this when she can't touch him. It wasn't a lie, what he'd told her – he can hardly think when she's on him like that. Might as well be struck stupid. But like this, he can focus entirely on her, track how her pulse flutters under his tongue, listen to the short catches of her breath, quick and heavy, the way she sounds when she's close.

The strokes of his tongue inside her are tortuously gentle, not enough to get her there immediately. Each one coaxing a slow ascent back up to where he'd left her dangling. The fire in his chest is raging so hot it's like he's burning from the inside out. Twice more he gets her keening, but he stays away from her clit, a place he knows will send her hurtling over that edge, digging his nails into her thighs so she can't buck him off.

It's so different this time. Maybe because they both needed it so badly. Already before he’d even touched her tonight, he’d thought of all the ways he could ruin her, could ruin everything. But he watches her, this brave, beautiful girl writhing above him, her eyes like blue crystals, wide and luminous, falling apart under his hands, and thinks even if he has, well — they’ll just both be ruined together.

“P-Please— _I wanna come_.”

She’s shaking like a damn leaf, her hips stuttering wildly against his hand. Beth opens her mouth, begs again, and there’s that fucked up part of him that wants to say no again. See if he can push her just a little bit further, but if he didn’t know he’s exactly the reason why her voice is so unsteady, he’d probably be worried about her.

“You gonna keep whining all night, girl?” Daryl hums nonchalantly, seemingly unbothered by her ceaseless thrashing. “Or am I gonna have to gag you? Maybe I'll just stop right now and you won't get a damn thing.”

Beth lets out another desperate whine that sound more animal than human, and she's shaking her head so violently that her blonde curls whip across her face. That sound, it sends a bolt of lust shooting through him like an arrow. “Please don't stop,” she chokes, her eyes wide and shiny, wet with unspent tears of frustration.

“I'll be good, Daryl. _I promise._ ”

 

Beth begs again, and this time, that high-pitched whine of his name sends a shudder that cracks through him like a whip. All the air in his lungs feels like it leaves him in a rush. All of this, she's done it for him, whatever he asked for, whatever he needed. Even if he didn't quite know himself. “I got you, sweet girl,” he murmurs. The kisses he presses next against her hip, the smooth skin underneath her belly button, are whisper soft like he's trying to soothe her, reaching up to run careful strokes over her scalp through that mess of blonde. Then he slides his other palm down her flat stomach, curling his fingers so can he tap against that place inside her, the one that'll really make her sing.

Beth cries out and Daryl watches, rapt, as she falls back against the bed like she can't hold herself up a second longer. She's got her head turned to the side, her cheek pressed against the mattress like she can't bring herself to look at him. All those pretty curls of hers fanned out like a river of gold behind her – a damn halo. And her eyes are heavy-lidded, hazy, her cherry-red lips chapped and swollen from where she's bitten at them. Not that he didn't do his fair share of the biting.

God, she's perfect. Not just that.

She's _everything_.

All the noise in his head, all that static that's been buzzing between his ears since he'd left the prison, she pushes it all aside. The way she's panting hard and fast, her gasps coming out sharp and uneven as she struggles to catch her breath. The fluttering of her pulse beating wildly in her neck like a metronome. It's the closest to zen he'll ever get he thinks, watching her carefully, sharp eyes tracing the slope of her spine as she arches off the mattress

She's a damn goddess, and he's nothing more than a beast.

Don't let the wolf through the gate, that's the saying, right?

Well, she's gone and let one into her bed.

 

“Daryl!”

She was certain if she gave in she'd get what she wanted. Get what she'd craved. It had only led to more torture . Every stroke of his fingers, his tongue, was so good but somehow not enough. Never enough. Now all she can do is lie back on the bed, trapped, unable to do anything but just _take it_. God, and that was his plan all along, wasn't it?

He'd wanted her at his mercy, and now she is.

She'd done exactly as he'd asked, hadn't she? How long has he been tormenting her? Feels like it's been hours. It's not just the orgasm she's aching for. These restraints, this damn belt wrapped around her wrists, it's made her realize just how needy she really is when she can't touch him. Beth wants him closer, wants to be wrapped up in his arms when she finally does come. Like there's nothing else she needs except to feel his body right next to hers. Like this, on his knees in front of her, somehow that's still too far away.

“Please. _I was good.”_

“Yeah, baby, I know you were.” Daryl presses his lips to her throat and Beth's heart stutters uselessly in her chest. She squeezes her eyes shut like she's bracing for him to refuse her again cuz she's not naive enough to hope for anything else.

But the no doesn't come. Instead, when Daryl speaks, his voice is all sugar, sweet as honey when his lips tickle her ear. It's a command that sounds nothing like his earlier one. “Wrap your legs around me.”

She's nodding eagerly as she crosses her ankles around his back just like he'd told her to. Then Daryl's rising to his feet, looping strong arms around her waist to lift her up. Just like when he'd first set her down, he's so careful when he settles at the edge of the bed with her in his lap.

She waits for him to free her wrists so she can grab onto him, but he doesn't. There's a flicker of panic in her chest, because if he lets go of her, if she falls, she can't do a thing to help herself.

Almost like he's reading her mind, Daryl's palm spreads protectively across her back, holding her up against him. She shivers again when his other hand finds its way back down her body to finish what he'd started.

“Wanna see you come, baby doll,” Daryl drawls, pressing hot open mouthed kisses under her jaw. “You gonna be my sweet girl and give me what I want?”

God, if she'd thought his fingers had felt incredible. That drawl, those words, they slide across her skin like welcome, warm rain. Yes, yes, yes, she thinks. She can do that. Whatever he wants. Beth's head falls forward, nuzzling into his shoulder as she rides his hand with frantic thrusts of her hips. “ _I love you. Love you so damn much.”_

And then her orgasm finally hits with all the violence and subtlety of a bullet to the brain.

 

It’s different this time too, but now as she leans into him, hips rolling desperately, chasing the rhythm set by his fingers, she’s almost quiet. He can feel her heart hammering in her chest though, her breath hitching as she gets closer and closer. He’s pretty sure he’s never felt her trembling so hard in his life. And the way she's gripping him, so fucking hot and tight, her walls fluttering around his fingers like she's trying desperately to keep him there.

Then those words hit him like a brick to the face. She hasn’t said them since that night she’d confessed it like sin and he couldn’t do the same because what the fuck did a man like him know about lovin' somebody. Surely he'd fuck it up – do it wrong. Fuck up like he always eventually does.

 

There’s a brief wave of panic, too because her face catches in the light and he sees that her eyes are wet, tear tracks staining those flushed cheeks of hers. They don’t seem like the bad kind, not from the way she’s gazing up at him like he’s the face of god and she’d fall to her knees in front of him in penance if he let her.

 

There’s nothing he can say. He doesn’t trust himself to even attempt it because it’s like he can taste them, those three little words sitting in his mouth. So he just kisses her, sealing his lips against hers. It’s just as heavy and fevered as it always is. The salt from her tears mixed with the same sweet of her mouth, and now he’s the one goddamn trembling. The one whose breathing is just as heavy and labored as hers even though she’s the one who’s just fallen apart in his arms.

Daryl presses his lips to her face, slow and gentle, as he finally pulls his fingers away and licks them clean before he trails them down her back to slip her wrists free. The sound of that belt clanking as it hits the bedspread, maybe it’s just him but it sounds as loud as iron hitting the floor.

He’s so careful when he takes hold of her arms, rubbing the feeling back into them. Then he’s bringing her hands up to his mouth, kissing the tips of her fingers and the places around her wrists where the cracked leather rubbed against her sensitive skin.

He might’ve wrecked her, but he didn’t hurt her.

She’d trusted him not to, even when he didn’t trust himself.

It's only after he deems her unharmed, examining every bit of the pale skin of her arms, that he finally lets go of her hands, flicking his tongue across that little white line across her wrist before he does. God, he'd keep her here like this all the time if he could because he loves it (christ, he loves her), seeing her all boneless and sated in his arms. Might not be the most practical, but he's not sure there's any way he'll ever get enough of her. Of hearing her breathing soften and quiet, the way her heartbeat finally slows down to a steady, even thud against his chest.

“What about you?” Beth finally speaks, gazing up at him through her lashes, her voice thick and slurred.

“What about me, darlin'?” Okay, yes, he knows what she's asking, why she's asking it. She'd have to be blind, deaf, and dumb not to notice that fact that he's still impossibly hard against her. But it doesn't really matter, not to Daryl, because that hadn't really been the point. It was downright intoxicating, taking her apart piece by piece until she begged for it. Watching her was almost just as good, maybe even better than getting off himself.

“Already got what I wanted,” he murmurs, cupping her face gently, swiping his thumb over her bee-stung lips, all red and swollen. Because of him. He'd proved it to himself, proved it to both of them. He won't hurt her. Not ever.

Her eyes are that hazy, cloudy blue, the way they get when she's coming down, and in the moonlight that breaks across her, he can see her expression, dazed and dreamy. “'Sides, you look just about ready to drop, sweetheart.” But god, she's soaked the sheets and the front of his jeans, her thighs slick with her release, his saliva. That thought only makes his dick throb and he bites back a hiss because that ain't doing much to ease the ache.

But this is about her. It was always about her, so he just lifts her in his arms and lays her back down carefully, like he's carrying something precious (he is _),_ pressing his lips sweetly to her forehead. “I'll be right back. Promise,” he whispers, before disappearing into the kitchen, coming back with a glass of water, a warm wet cloth to wipe her clean. He made the mess, so he might as well clean it up.

“...you all right?” he asks, sliding that cloth up and down her legs.

Beth hums contentedly. “'Course I am. More'n all right. Y'know you're gonna kill me one of these days.”

“Am not.” Daryl lets out a breathless laugh, his nails skittering soothingly across her scalp.“'Wouldn't do, anyway. Got a vested interest in keepin' the girl I love alive.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
